Classic Poem

I COULD believe that sorrow ne'er sojourned
Within the circle of these sunny hills.
That this small Lake, beneath the morning light,
Now lying so serenely beautiful,
Ne'er felt one passing storm, but on its breast
Retained for aye the silent imagery
Of those untroubled heavens.


How still yon Isle,
Scarcely distinguished from its glimmering shadow
In the water pure as air! Yon little Flock
How snow-white! lying on the pastoral mount,
Basking in the sunshine. That lone Fisherman,
Who draws his net so slowly to the shore,
How calm an Image of secluded Life!
While the boat moving with its twinkling oars,
On its short voyage to yon verdant point
Fringed with wild birch-wood, leaves a shining track
Connecting by a pure and silvery line
The quiet of both shores.


So deep the calm
I hear the solitary Stock-dove's voice
Moaning across the Lake, from the dark bosom
Of yon old Pine-Grove. Hark the village clock
Tolls soberly! And, 'mid the tufted Elms,
Reveals the spire still pointing up to Heaven.
I travel on unto the noisy City,
And on this sunny bank mine hour of rest
Stream-like has murmured by—yet shall the music
Oft rise again—the Lake, Hills, Wood, and Grove,
And that calm House of God. Sweet Vale, Farewell!